


Finishing the Game

by FranklyChaos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lil bit of Mystrade, Lurking moriarty, M/M, Moriarty cos i fucking love his character, Not much smut cos im fucking bad at it, SUICIDE WARNING!!!!!, Sshhhhhhh, just let it happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 8,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranklyChaos/pseuds/FranklyChaos
Summary: Moriarty died on that rooftop, but what if he hadn't?Sherlock is convinced Jim is dead; he isn't.  No no no, he's watching from the shadows, watching as John gives up, and Sherlock for once, doesn't know what to do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't actually the first chapter, this is me explaining shit so it's less confusing later.

Ok, so! 

I HOPE to update once a week, probably Thursdays, but honestly I have no idea. We'll see what happens and I'll try to keep you up to date on my inner monologues.

Anyway, the basic premise of this is "what if Moriarty DIDN'T die on the roof?"  That being said, I've always felt that him committing suicide on the roof was a tad out of character. I would have thought he'd've had someone fake it for him. 

This fic will probably go between perspectives a lot, from Sherlock to John to Moriarty, not necessarily in that order.  

AND! Just so you're aware, I will do my best to keep all the characters in character, but I may tip Jim off the edge.  I've always thought of him as two extremes, either docile and having fun, or screaming out in anger.  I will probably also portray him as the depressed, broken man that he is, in the chapters from his POV.

I'm sure the tags will be warning enough, but people ARE. Going. To die.  Your favourite people, or not. Whatever.

Also, Johnlock, but that's not necessarily the main plot point.  A tiny, itty bitty piece of Mystrade, if I remember. 

OH AND ALSO! I haven't seen series 4 (*distant sobbing*) so forgive me for not writting anything at all about Sebastian Moran.  I've only heard tidbits, not nearly enough for me to write him in.  So it's just Jim, all by his lonesome. Sorry.

One last thing: i have no beta readers, unless any of you want to volunteer. No brit-pickers either, but I think I've got that bit handled.

So thanks for reading, in advance.  Suggestions are appreciation, so is criticism! 

Cheers!

Xx


	2. Worse Than Worst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, any and all suggestions are welcome, as is criticism. thanks!
> 
> Xx

Sherlock very nearly winced as Moriarty pulled the trigger.  Blood splattered and his body crumpled to the ground. Something had seemed . . . _of_ _ f _ about him, but Sherlock hadn't the time to worry about it. 

When he threw himself from the building, he knew what it would do. Of course he knew, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. He knew what it would do to John;  _ thought  _ he knew at least. But it had to be done.  _ Had  _ to, or there would be no point in wondering whether John would forgive him. 

So he'd thrown himself from the roof, and he'd gone to Mycroft, who'd sent him rushing about to capture Moriarty’s men.

“Watch him, Molly. Keep me updated. And don't let him do anything stupid.” he pleaded, and she nodded.

So when he went away, he could feign confidence, and pretend he was undistracted. Molly contacted him as frequently as he would allow, and her words were -- if not comforting -- reassuring, proving he had made the correct choice, not that he'd had much of one to start.

But then they'd gotten worse.

“Sherlock, you  _ have _ to come back. He . . . something’s gone wrong, I think. I don't know. He's not okay, Sherlock. He needs you. More than you know.” 

He'd said nothing to this, knowing she was right, but also aware that he  _ couldn't  _ return, not until Moriarty’s men were taken care of.

And then even Mycroft began badgering him. “Brother dear, you ought to consider cutting your time away short.”

Sherlock scowled, though Mycroft couldn't see through the phone. “I can't,  _ brother _ . I've not found Moriarty’s last man.”

He could  _ feel _ his brother's exasperation from the other end of the line. “All of this, to save your doctor. If you don't return soon, you may not have a doctor to go back to.”

The words hit Sherlock like a train, clearing his brain if anything other than  _ John _ . He shook his matted curls. “I have to finish this. Watch him. Ask Lestrade to talk to him, or --”

“What good would that do, brother?”

“I don't -- just do  _ something _ !” he shouted, the words dragged raggedly against his throat. He sagged. “Please. Do something.”

And Mycroft may not have known his brother's feelings personally, but he certainly understood. “We'll do what we can. But, Sherlock. . . hurry.”

  
With that, the line clicked, and Sherlock ended the call. He sighed, ignoring the tremble in his hands and the quiver in his lip and pushed the thoughts of John aside. He  _ had _ to finish. There was nothing to be done about it except to  _ finish _ .


	3. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! And if you want more shorts (not all fandoms, sorry) or poetry, or wanna offer suggestions, check out my blog: http://franklychaos.weebly.com/ 
> 
> And I'm looking for beta-readers! If you're interested, please contact me at frankievsnow@gmail.com

John Watson was broken.  He had broken when Sherlock's body hit the pavement with a hard, heart-shattering  _ thud _ .  His brain had shut down and everything went a grieving grey.  It was that same grey at the funeral, and John had grown accustomed to its needy clinging at his shoulder.  He'd spent the weeks afterwards avoiding Ms Hudson’s mothering and Lestrade's calls.  He didn't leave the flat for days at a time, though he'd somehow managed to keep his job -- courtesy of Mycroft, he supposed.  

After the first year, he tried to get back on his feet.  He really did try.  But his mind would go back to the ridiculous coat and the knotted blue scarf and the rain-soaked curls and the eyes that were supposed to see everything and instead they saw nothing, saw not enough.

So he’d tried, with Mary.  And he’d put forth all of his energy and all of his effort, but he couldn’t.  He just . . . couldn’t.  And he’d apologised profusely, but then he’d gone back to the one place he promised himself he would stop going.

He stood before Sherlock’s grave and his knee gave out and he was on the ground and finally,  _ finally _ , his tears came.  He’d pushed them aside for a year, promised himself it was okay, he didn’t need to cry, it was  _ Sherlock _ for Christ’s sake, he wouldn’t want the tears.  But then they were soaking the ground and the clouds wept with him and he finally said all the things he was supposed to say a long, long time ago.

“Dammit, Sherlock.  After everything we’d been through. . . after all of it, you’re just going to  _ leave _ me here?  Leave me here without my best friend?  You fucking arsehole . . .” he choked, and realised he couldn’t insult him.  He let out a wrecked chuckle, wiping rain and tears from his eyes.  “God, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do without you ruining all my dates?  Just ruin them myself, I suppose.”

His walk home was long and soggy, and he arrived to a tsk-ing Ms Hudson who promptly handed him a towel.  He thanked her, pretended to care that he was soaked, and fell into an emotionally exhausted sleep on the sofa. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moriarty chprs are going to be a bit shorter than the rest. sorry.

Jim sighed.  His puppet on the rooftop had done . . .  _ okay _ .  Tolerably well.  Although, he supposed as he watched Sherlock fall, well enough for Sherlock.  Or perhaps Sherlock was more worried about other things.  Obviously, Sherlock was still alive.  He wouldn’t just go and off himself, not if he could help it.  But Jim was ready to go back into the shadows again, and he had long ago dismantled his network, not that Holmes was aware of that.  He sighed a smug sigh and went to watch the dear Doctor Watson. 

 

He was almost annoyed at the doctor’s lack of emotion, at first.  Then he grinned a wolfish grin.  It’ll just be more exciting later, then.  

 

He was there, when John went to the graveyard time after time.  He saw every tremble in his knee, every twitch in his fingers, the emptiness in his eyes.  He knew he wouldn’t last long, and he was positively  _ delighted _ . 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update; studying for finals and time definitely got away from me this week. But it's still Thursday, so it counts! Still looking for betas, if anyone is interested.

John stared unseeingly at the flat. His fingers brushed thin trails through the light jacket of dust that had settled in.  His mobile pinged, jerking him from his daze.  He glanced at the screen.  Mycroft.

**Doctor Watson, how are we today?**

John rolled his eyes.  Mycroft had been checking in on him with obnoxious frequency.  Lestrade’s doing, he supposed.  The elder Holmes -- the _only_ Holmes, now -- would hardly care how he was coping. _Don’t you have a government to run? _

**We are concerned for you, Doctor.**

_Who’s “we”?_

**Detective Inspector Lestrade and I are concerned, John.  I suggest you take a chance to share a drink with the DI.**

_Why?_

**It would be a great service for me, John.**

_I’ll consider it._

**Thank you.**

With that, the conversation was over, and John silently rejoiced.  Conversing with Mycroft was always mentally exhausting and emotionally frustrating, moreso then than before.  With a sigh, he tapped out another message on his mobile and grabbed his coat.

_Up for a pint?_

Always, John.  Anyplace in mind?

_The pub up the street from the Yard?_

I’ll be there in ten.

John pocketed his mobile and was out the door.  He should have taken a cab, but he figured he could save the fare for Lestrade’s ride home when they were done -- he’d need it.  As he walked, he ignored the flashes of a wind-pulled coat that the corner of his eye caught on.  He ignored the blue scarves he was seeing everywhere.  He had to work very hard to ignore the mops of curly hair blowing in the wind, and the grey-green eyes that stared into him as he passed.  He wasn’t there.  He would never be there again.  Accept it and move on, he scolded himself.

“John!”  Lestrade offered his friendliest smile as John entered.  “It’s great to see you out of the flat, mate.  How’ve you been?”

John shrugged, following Greg to a seat in the back.  “Fairly awful, actually.  But I’ll get there.”  He plastered on a smile that was really more of a grimace.

Greg’s smile fell into a concerned frown.  “Mycroft says you’ve been a tad touchy lately.  Is anything . . . stupid question, I suppose -- is anything _else_ wrong?”

“Nah, mate.  It’s just been a rough few weeks, I guess.”

And so Greg pretended to shrug it off, and allowed John to change the subject as they sipped at their beer.  It only took another pint and a half for John to go back to it.  

“He was my best friend, you know.” he sighed, offering up a sad smile.  “My best friend, and he jumped off a fucking building.”

“It’s not your fault, John.  You couldn’t have known what was going on in his head.  I’m not even sure _he_ did most of the time.” Greg replied, resting a hopefully reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I know that, I do.  But it’s just -- he could’ve _told_ me, you know?  I could’ve helped.”

“Not if he didn’t let you.  John,” Greg tilted John’s head up to stare at him seriously, verging on drunk as he was,  “this is not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything even if you _did_ know.  He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, for Christ’s sake!”

John was silent across from him for a while.  He shook his head sadly and mumbled something under his breath. Greg frowned, not hearing.  “What’s that?”

John nearly laughed.  “I loved him, you know?” He heaved in a shuddering breath, tears begging for escape at the edge of his eyes.  “I loved him, and he’ll never know.”

“John,” he frowned, “we all did.  I’m sure he knew that we cared about him.  Couldn’t be around him for longer than a few minutes without him finding out on his own.”

A shake of a blond mop.  “No. I _loved_ him.  Asked ‘im out on our first case, sorta.  Turned me down, ‘married to the Work’ and all that shite.”

Lestrade restrained his instinct to gape.  He shouldn’t be surprised, not really.  Sherlock tended to have that effect on people.  “Wow, John.”

The doctor laughed at that, a cold, rueful one.  “Yeah. _Wow._ Regular hopeless romantic, aren’t I?” he sighed, “But I think he’d thought I’d moved on.  And I tried to, with all my dates.  But it never worked.  I was still in love with him.”

Half a pint later, Lestrade was paying for John’s ride home, although John insisted he pay him back later.  On the drive back, John _definitely_ didn’t see a thin frame standing on a street corner, curls raised in the wind.  He didn’t see the deerstalker hat, or the coat as it whipped round a corner into an alley, and he sure as hell didn’t see that blue scarf -- that _fucking_ scarf -- in the moonlight as a shadow leapt between buildings.

If anyone asked anyone, he saw none of those things.  But if you asked him, and his half empty bottle of scotch, he saw all of those things and more.  He saw a violinist at the window, a detective on the sofa, a scientist at the table, a friend in a chair, a man in bed, his body finally having caught up with him.

But he didn’t see any of those things.  None at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**You can come home now, brother. MH**

Sherlock stared at his phone, knowing it was true but still feeling wrong about it, somehow. **I know. SH**

**I have arranged for a flight back to London.  It leaves at 9:30 tomorrow morning. MH**

**No. SH**

**No?  I’d thought you would want to return immediately. MH**

**I need two weeks.  There are things I need to do. SH**

**Very well, brother.  Two weeks.  But be cautious.  Your doctor needs you. MH**

Sherlock didn’t bother disputing the “your doctor” bit and instead turned his mobile off and headed down the street. A few things to do, yes.  He needed to sort himself out before he went back.  Needed to prepare for what might have happened in his absence.

Two weeks came and went, and he was on a plane back to London on the fourteenth day.  Something felt wrong, that hadn’t changed in the prior weeks, but try as he might, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

When he walked into 221B for the first time in three years, John didn’t welcome him with a fist or open arms.  He offered not even a “Hello Sherlock” as the door closed behind him.  The detective took it in stride; it was a far better reaction than he’d been expecting, if a bit disconcerting.  They went about their normal lives, and Sherlock avoided cases for the time being, finding that -- for once -- he needed the time to relax.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks so much for reading. If you want more shorts / poems / & such, please check out my blog, FranklyChaos.weebly.com (<\-- not a link).
> 
> Xx


	7. Chapter 7

_ Ohhhhhh _ .  Well that made things  _ infinitely _ more interesting, Jim sighed happily to himself.  John was in  _ love _ with him.  Wasn’t that just  _ precious _ ?  He really should have noticed it sooner, but he’d been occupied with other things.  That was when he’d started wearing a light blue scarf, and a long coat that swirled around his ankles.  He could see why Sherlock like it so much.

 

He started going for long walks around 221B, walking round the building, up to Tesco, and back again.  It only took a few weeks, and then he sat back and watched.  

 

John began seeing him without Jim’s . . .  _ assistance _ .  He ignored it, at first, Jim noticed.  But then it seemed as though the poor doctor gave up.  He went on talking to the Sherlock that wasn’t there, argued with him like he would any other day, even went on walks with the man, the man who wasn’t there.  Jim allowed a grin to work its way onto his features from the building across the street.  

 

Jim left the building silently, pushing aside the jealousy and loneliness that crept into the corners of his mind.  “Don’t do this now, Jim,” he mumbled harshly, “Don’t have time for it, not now.” 

 

He caught a cab and gave the cabbie directions back to his home.  He made it home just fine, the excitement of his discovery still fairly fresh in his mind.  But then there was a lull in activity, nothing to do, nothing to think, nothing  _ there _ .  And the excitement didn’t last very long.

 

He sat for a while, staring at nothing, thoughts roiling around in his skull. 

 

Worthless.

 

Broken.

 

Crazy.

Wrong.

 

Mental.

 

_ Villain _ .

 

He pushed them away again and again and they always seemed to come back stronger.  He needed something to do, something to  _ think _ .  Something, anything, everything, nothing.  There was nothing.

 

He searched through the drawers next to him and stared blankly and indecisively at the contents.  He needed to see this through.  He’d put too much into it to stop now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapters will be a tad shorter than usual, sorry.  
> Cheers
> 
> Xx

It was getting worse.  John knew that.  He was very aware of that, yes.  His therapist had reminded him with obnoxious frequency.  That was why he’d stopped going.  

 

At first, they bothered him.  The hallucinations.  Seeing Sherlock when he wasn’t there, would never be there again.  Eventually he got used to them, even spoke to them.  It was comforting in a way it wasn’t supposed to be.  He was back.  But he wasn’t.  John supposed the reality of his absence didn’t matter.  It was the fact that, even though it was fictional and all in his head, it was nice to have someone to talk to.  Someone who understood what he felt.

 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice said from behind him. 

 

“Something wrong, Sherlock?” John asked, not turning away from washing the dishes.

 

“John, I’m back.”

 

He let out a snort.  “I can hear that.  I may not be a detective, but I think I can deduce what it means when I hear you talking.”  He sighed.  “Anything from Lestrade?”

 

“No.  I don’t plan on taking cases for a while,” answered the detective, picking up the dripping plates and toweling them dry.  John gave him a strange look, but said nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short, but that's just my writing style - I write in short, separated chapters to keep myself organised.
> 
> anyway, happy Thursday and happy reading.
> 
> Cheers
> 
> Xx

It was strange, not receiving the shouts he’d been expecting. Otherwise, the week that followed was rather uneventful.  He had planned to only take a week off of cases, but something seemed wrong, and he wanted --  _ needed _ \-- to fix it. 

 

He spent the first day after his return wandering about the flat, deducing everything John had done in the three years he’d missed.  There were fewer bottles of varied alcohol, but Sherlock suspected that was actually due to an increase in drinking, as opposed to the opposite.  His violin case wasn’t as dusty as it should have been.  John had been trying to play, he realised with a start and a smile.  It was an interesting game, deducing his friend’s life without him.  

  
John had spent a lot of time in front of the window, and even more in his --  _ Sherlock’s _ \-- chair.  But why --? Oh.  _ OH _ .  No.  He must be wrong.  But maybe. . . maybe he wasn’t.  And if he wasn’t, maybe there was hope after all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here ya go, guys. happy reading. 
> 
> Cheers  
> Xx

They --  _ he _ , remember, it’s just him -- were on the sofa sipping tea, and John was reading.  And apparently, he felt the need to say it again, to Sherlock’s face, even if it wasn’t really him. 

 

“I love you,” he breathed, barely audible, and closed his eyes for the outburst.

 

Sherlock turned to face him, a look of vague surprise in his eyes.  His face softened.  “I love you too, John.”

 

John chuckled mirthlessly and let a tear slip down his cheek.  A sad smile pulled at his lips.  “I know,” he whispered, “I know.”

 

A tense silence hung around the flat, and John pretended not to notice.  He asked if Sherlock was hungry, and was repeatedly turned down.  He would have cooked for one anyway, he supposed.

 

“Aren’t you getting bored?” he asked, taking a bite of his toast the following morning.

 

The detective turned to face him.  “Why would I be?”

 

“Well,” John swallowed, “You’ve not had a case in a long while.  Might be time.”  He  _ could _ take cases on his own, if he wanted.  Lestrade had said so.  But it had felt wrong, without the detective.  That’s what it had always been -- the detective and his doctor.  Can’t have just one.  “Could use the money, anyway.”

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “Soon.” He hesitated.  “If that’s what you want.”  John shrugged and remained silent, finishing his breakfast. 

 

“I’ll text Greg.” John said finally, standing to bring his dishes to the sink.

 

And Sherlock allowed a ghost of a smile to reach his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn’t a good case.  Barely a four, really.  But John had seemed . . . in need of something.  Action, movement, a feeling of being needed.  Sherlock didn’t know what, but he went along with it.

 

He had stayed at Baker street while John spoke with Geoff about the case.  It may have been what John needed, but that didn’t mean he was getting dressed for a case below a seven, much less below a five.  

 

John didn’t return for nearly two hours, but when he did, he’d brought back milk and a case file.  They spent another few hours going over the details; some sort of fraud-turned-murder.  Boring murder, though.  No  _ real _ need for Sherlock to be involved.  By the time John called it a night, Sherlock had solved the case. But . . . so had John. 

 

He should be happy, really, he should.  He’d always pushed John to look and  _ observe _ , but this was different.  This was . . . a bit not good, really.  John would always tell him when he’d figured something out.  There was a bit of pride in his eyes when he got something before Sherlock.  This time there had been an “Oh.  Obvious, really.  Don’t know how I missed that,” and then he’d closed the file and headed up the stairs to his room.  He hadn’t even given Sherlock time to say “Because you’re an idiot.”  And he’d solved it  _ before _ Sherlock.

 

This wasn’t a normal case.  What was this?  The  _ first _ case.  The first since Sherlock had returned, and -- if he was right, and he probably was -- the first since his false suicide.  It would take time to get back to normal, but . . . something was  _ wrong _ and he didn’t know what it was.  And he didn’t like not knowing.


	12. Chapter 12

“Oh.  He’s taken a case.”  Jim sighed, releasing a cloud of frosty breath.  “Interesting.”

 

He’d known that the doctor would try to move on, of course.  That’s what everyone does.  But then Sherlock had come back.  And he’d expected that to throw a bit of a wrench in things.  But as he watched them interact . . . John believed he was a  _ hallucination _ .  And now that he’d taken a case -- and  _ solved  _ it -- without Sherlock, things were going to get interesting.

 

He watched, as the weeks went by, and Dr Watson took on more cases.  He had become rather efficient, truthfully, and Jim had to admit he was impressed with the doctor’s sudden show of skill.  Sherlock seemed a tad . . . put out by it.  John would go out, work cases with Lestrade, and Sherlock . . . stayed at Baker street.  But why?  Why not go with?  He must see what was happening, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, of course he saw!  Then why allow it?  Why allow John to continue moving on, being right there . . .

 

Oh.   _ Oh _ .  How  _ precious _ .  “You observe, Sherlock, but you do not  _ see _ .”  Jim grinned.

 

He saw what was happening, of course he did.  He observed John’s reactions to his presence and knew that something was off.  But what he couldn’t put together was  _ why _ .  The great Sherlock Holmes, solving murders and kidnappings with naught more than a missing suitcase and a note scratched into a wooden floor, and he was lost when it came to his best friend’s own emotions.

 

“Oh Sherlock, what are we to do with you?” Jim sighed.  “And what will John do  _ without _ you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks again so much for reading! (not the last chapter, no worries.) If you guys want more of my work on these guys and (mostly) OCs, take a look at my blog, Frankly Chaotic (franklychaos.wordpress.com). You are welcome email some of your own original work to me and I'll make sure that it gets posted on my blog. Although I'm sure you guys all have your own blogs and such. But anyway, thanks again for the support, as always!


	13. Chapter 13

“So,” Lestrade began, sipping at his beer, “how’re things?”

 

John shrugged.  “Things are fine.  What about you?”

 

“I’m doing okay.  And -- look I know you don’t really want to talk about this, but you need to talk to  _ someone _ , and it sure as hell isn’t your therapist anymore.”

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I guess.  It’s just . . . I dunno.  Raw, I guess.”

 

Lestrade nodded.  “I know, John.  Look, I won’t say anything, I won’t ask any questions or anything, unless you want me to.  But please, just talk.”  He watched his friend’s emotions battle across his face.

 

Finally, John relented.  “Okay.  Where do I start?”  Lestrade only shrugged.  John sighed and sipped at his beer.  “He saved me, you know.  I already told you I loved him, but he saved me.  After I was discharged from the army, I didn’t know what to do with myself.  I fell apart.  I could barely get out of bed in the morning, let alone hold down a job.  When I met Sherlock, the first thing he did was use me.  Use my expertise, ask for my opinion.  And it wasn’t much, really.  It wasn’t really anything.  But to me, it was a sense of purpose, a reason to drag my sorry arse out of bed every morning.  He needed me.  Or, if not  _ need _ , he wanted me there, at least.  And that was almost better than needing me.  He could have easily memorised all of those medical facts and found everything that I did in a matter of seconds.  But he chose to include me instead.  He saved my life.

 

“The very same day that I met Sherlock, I had planned to finish it.  To stop playing this wretched  _ game _ we call life.  But then I ran into my old friend Mike Stafford, and I met Sherlock.  And my plan went out the bloody window.  I didn’t think I would ever get back to that point, the point where I was constantly eyeing the drawer with my gun, the medicine cabinet, every piece of rope I came across.  I had thought that for as long as I needed him, Sherlock would be here to pull me away from the edge.”  John let out a self-pitying laugh. “But he’s not here now, is he?”

 

They lapsed into a palpable silence, and when John had finished his bottle, he gave Lestrade a wave and hailed a taxi.  Lestrade sat for a while, nursing his beer before John's words hit him.  An instant later, he was dialing Sherlock’s phone, panic drawn on his face.

 

“Holmes.” came the low answer.

 

“Sherlock, what the  _ bloody hell _ is going on?”

 

“Geoff, you are rarely coherent, but this is extreme even so.”

 

“John just walked out of the bar believing that you’re  _ dead _ .  I thought you  _ told him _ !”

 

There was a long pause as Sherlock finally realised why John had been acting so peculiarly.  “I told him, Lestrade.  I returned to Baker street, and he reacted as though this was an expected and normal occurrence.  I thought nothing of it.”

 

Lestrade dragged his hand down his face.  “He’s been having  _ hallucinations, _ Sherlock!  Of bloody  _ course _ he thought you being there was normal!”

 

“I see.  Was he on his way back to Baker street when he left?”

 

“I assumed so, why?”

 

“He hasn’t arrived yet.  Had he left before you called, he would have returned three minutes ago.”

 

A cold feeling clutched at Lestrade’s chest.  “Sherlock, he was talking about suicide before he left.”

 

Lestrade heard Sherlock take in a sharp breath.  “Did he have his gun?”

 

“I don’t know, but he seems to be carrying it everywhere with him, these days.”

 

Sherlock cursed loudly from the other end, something he was known to avoid.  “Get the force on it!  _ Find him! _ ”

 

“We will, Sherlock.”  


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I am now on Tumblr, aspontaneouswritingpineapple. I don't know that I'll post a whole lot of fanfiction-type things, but there will be some. Primarily OCs and responses for writing prompts.

The line rang for exactly three seconds. 

  


“Holmes.” came the answer.

  


“Find John.” Sherlock commanded, his voice threatening to betray him.

  


“Why?”

  


“Mycroft, I will explain later.   _ Find John _ .”

  


There was a distinct “higher-than-thou” sniff from the other end.  “Very well, brother mine.”

  


Sherlock sighed with the small bit of relief he gained.  “Thank you.”

  


“I’m sending you his location now.  He appears to be stationary, but if he moves, I will keep you apprised.”

  


“Thank you, Mycroft.  Thank you.”

  


With a swirl of his coat and a slam of the door, Sherlock was out, in a taxi and on his way, mumbling incoherently with each step.  He sent Lestrade John’s location and soon heard police sirens following his lead.  

  


In the midst of a traffic jam, he leapt out of the taxi and stopped Lestrade’s car, climbing in beside him and commanding him to drive.  He rang John, texted, but received nothing.  

  


“Come  _ on _ , John. Pick up!”  he hissed anxiously.

  


Another traffic jam, this caused by an accident at an intersection.  Furious, Sherlock clambered out of the car and ran.  The location he’d gotten from Mycroft was the cemetery where Sherlock had been supposedly buried, only a few blocks from him.  

  


He arrived, panting and trembling from the toes up, to find John on a bench across the park, a notebook in one hand and his gun in another.

  


“John!” he called, rushing to his friend’s side.  He could hear Lestrade and his team finally arriving and their sirens approaching.

  


John gave him a sad smile.  “Hello Sherlock.  Well, goodbye, actually.  I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I just. . . I can’t anymore.”

  


“John!   _ Don’t!  JOHN! _ ” he screamed, and pushed his legs faster.

  


A gunshot ripped through the air and Sherlock’s legs locked and he fell.  He felt something horridly cold close around him and for once, his mind was completely, totally, blank.


	15. Chapter 15

Wait what was he . . ?  Ohhhh  _ no _ .  Jim shook his head.  He couldn’t allow this to happen.  No.  Not his favourite toy.  Well -- second favourite.  The point remained.  That wasn’t allowed.  He stood and shut his laptop with a frustrated slam, disconnecting from Mycroft’s surveillance mainframe.  

 

He was going to the cemetery, but Jim would never be able to intercept him.  He sighed and pulled his handgun from the drawer in which it was hidden, loaded it, and tucked it into his waistband.

 

He made it to the cemetery within minutes, only seconds after Sherlock had.  Sherlock was too far away, and with the doctor seeing him in his hallucinations, he wouldn’t be much help anyway.  Jim sniffed decisively as John raised the gun to his head, raised his own, steadied his breath, and fired.

 

There was a painful moment of silence after he’d pulled the trigger.  He saw Sherlock freeze and smiled at the thought of that  _ brilliant _ mind going completely blank for the first time in his life.   _ Poor detective. _

 

Jim took a moment to admire his shot; he’d missed John completely, which was rather impressive, considering the distance.  John’s gun had been sent flying out of his reach, for the time being, and now it was time for Jim to go.  Sherlock looked up in his direction, and Jim practically skipped away, with a smile and wave.  

 

He was fine, until he reached his home.  The sense of achievement filled his thoughts.  But it didn’t last, and the thoughts returned.  

 

Monster.

 

_ But I saved him.  I did something  _ good _! _

 

Cruel.

 

Evil.

 

Unwanted. 

 

_ Villain _ .

 

The word tumbled through his thoughts, invading every corner of his mind.  Villain.  The bad guy in every faery tale ever told.  He should be alright with it.  He’d accepted his role early on.  He had been alright with it since the beginning.  What had changed?

 

Villain.

 

Evil.

 

Unwanted.

 

_ Villain. _

 

And another gunshot echoed through London that night.


	16. Chapter 16

John sat bewildered before Sherlock’s gravestone, his hand tingling and his gun suddenly half a dozen feet away.  He tentatively flexed his fingers, dragged them through his hair.  No hole in his head.  But . . .

 

It clicked as Sherlock got to his feet and sprinted towards him.  The gunshot hadn’t come from his gun . . . someone had shot that out of his hand.  Thankfully, whomever it was was a good shot -- no damage to his person at all.  John was almost sorry for it.

 

“John!”  He turned to face the sound of Sherlock’s voice.  The man was out of breath, and his flesh had taken on a sickly shade of green.  Before reaching him, the detective was forced yet again to his knees, dry heaving and grateful for his lack of lunch.  When he finally stood again, it was on trembling legs and liquid knees.  He reached John and wrapped the smaller man in his arms, feeling himself reach the brink of tears.  “John,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

 

John swallowed the lump in his throat and returned the other’s embrace as Lestrade approached.  “Sherlock?” 

 

Sherlock pulled away enough to look at his doctor.  “Yes John?”

 

“You’re really here . . . aren’t you?”  He turned his face away, not wanting Sherlock “sentiment-is-a-weakness” Holmes to see the tears tracking down his jaw.

 

The other cupped his cheek with his spider-like fingers and turned his face to meet his eyes.  “Yes, John.  I am here.  And I won’t ever leave you again.”

 

Lestrade reached them and sank to his knees before John.  “John, I . . .” He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, turning to Sherlock.  “Get him home.  You and I can do the paperwork later.  John, I’m confiscating your gun for the time being.  You can pick it up in a few weeks, or for the next case, or whatever.  Just . . . get better, okay?  I’ll come see you soon.”

 

John nodded and Sherlock helped him to his feet.  Another officer drove them home and Ms Hudson let them in and made tea before taking her leave.  For a while, the detective sat in silence on the sofa with his doctor, tea in hand.  Their tea grew cold without ever being touched, and after a while, John stood to dump it into the sink.  Sherlock pushed him back down, gently, and performed the task himself.  When he returned, John had curled in on himself, hiding his freshly tear-stained face in his arms.

 

“John,” Sherlock murmured, kneeling before John’s place on the sofa.  “Oh, John. . . why?”  His voice was strained and his own tears were held at bay by the weakest of dams.

 

The small ball on the sofa sniffled before raising his eyes for a moment, and immediately tucking his head back into himself.  “Because you were  _ gone _ , Sherlock.  But I kept seeing you  _ everywhere _ .  And I thought that maybe . . . maybe I could  _ see _ you again,  _ really _ see you if I --”  He was cut off by his own choking sobs, and Sherlock climbed back on the sofa, wrapping the little ball of John in his long limbs.  When he’d regained his breath, he whispered into his knees, “I loved --  _ love _ you.”

 

Sherlock tensed at the use of past-tense, but softened as he continued.  He pulled John’s back tighter against his chest and nuzzled into the crook of his neck.  “And I you, John,” he whispered.  

 

John immediately pulled away and turned to face him.  “What?” he demanded.  “D-did you say--”

 

“Yes, John.  I did.”

 

John’s sobs were renewed and they wracked his body with hollow gasping.  “I th-thought I had  _ ha-hallucinated _ th-that!”

 

Sherlock pulled him into another embrace and stroked invisible patterns on his back as his breathing steadied.  “How long, John?” he whispered.

 

“How long what?”

 

“How long had you been  _ seeing _ me, when I wasn’t there?”

 

John swallowed.  “A year.  Maybe more.  It was nice, at first, I think.  I . . . got to see a little more of you.  It helped me to . . .  _ function _ , I guess, having your voice in my head.”

 

Sherlock chuckled, then explained at John’s strange look.  “It’s humorous, that you heard me in your head, and I heard you in mine.  I kept you in my Mind Palace.  You kept me alive, John.”

 

John smiled a fragile smile.  “How long have . . . have you loved me?”  he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

 

“Always.  Since the case you so cleverly titled ‘A Study in Pink’, since you shot the cabbie.” the other replied with a smile.  “How long have you?”

 

“Always,” John said with a strengthening grin.  “Since I asked you at Angelo’s.  I had become okay with just being your flatmate, just being your friend.”

 

“Why did you always correct people who labeled us a couple, then?”

 

John shrugged against him.  “Because . . . it wasn’t like that.  I didn’t want the constant reminder that it would  _ never _ be like that.  I wanted people to keep whatever they thought to themselves, to -- I don’t know -- save myself the hurt, I guess.”

 

Sherlock released a heavy sigh and pulled John’s head up to face him.  “Never again, John.  You will never settle for  _ flatmates _ .” The word rolled off his tongue with a tone of disgust.

 

There was a tentative silence, and John hesitantly leaned forward, capturing Sherlock’s lower lip between his own.  The detective gasped and a shiver raced down his spine.  John sucked gently on Sherlock’s lip, ran his tongue along it.

 

He wondered for an instant if this had been Sherlock’s first kiss, or if he had simply been shocked by John’s touch, but quickly decided it didn’t matter.  He learned quickly, mimicking John’s movements first, then moving on to experimenting.  He granted John access to his mouth, and his tongue moved inside, running along the sides and top of his mouth, taking in the taste of cold tea and  _ Sherlock _ , and gasping as the other responded in kind.  

 

John left Sherlock’s mouth to kiss his way along Sherlock’s jaw, nibbling on the pulse point behind his ear.  “ _ John _ ,” he moaned, and turned to work his way to John’s collarbone.  Breathless gasps were caught between them, hands roaming across each other’s bodies, searching for more, a way to get  _ closer _ .

 

With a gasp, John pulled away, breathing heavily.  He cradled Sherlock’s face in his palms and grinned.  “God, Sherlock.  I love you.  I love you so much.”

 

Sherlock returned his smile.  “And I you, John Watson.  And you will never again be alone.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, thanks again so much for reading. There'll be a few chapters after this, I'm sure, but we're getting close to the end here. That all said, I am working on some OCs over on tumblr. I am ASpontaneousWritingPineapple, and the work is called "It Could Be Something". So yeah. 
> 
> and also, smut warning
> 
>  
> 
> this is one of my first few attempts at smut, so I apologise in advance in case it's horrible.

Their journey to Sherlock's bedroom was interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing and clattering off the table.  John pulled away, his breathing uneven and heavy.  “You going to get that?” he asked.

 

Sherlock growled into his neck.  “I'm busy,” he replied.

 

“Could be Lestrade,” he said, not entirely committed to pushing Sherlock to answer.

 

At this, Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and went to answer. “Holmes,” he said into the receiver.  “ _ What _ ? . . . No.  I'll check it out tomorrow.  Keep the scene perfectly preserved, Garfield.  If Anderson touches anything, his will be the next body the Yard never finds.”

 

John furrowed a brow as Sherlock hung up.  “What was that about, then?”

 

Sherlock strode back to him, quickly returning to his neck.  “New case.”

 

“You don't want to check it out?”

 

“I'll --  _ we'll _ \-- go tomorrow.  We have plans tonight.”

 

“We do?”

 

“I most certainly do, and I believe it is safe to assume that you have similar ones.”

 

John laughed and allowed Sherlock to walk him back towards his room.  His jumper was lost along the way, quickly followed by Sherlock's tie and suit jacket.  John set to work on Sherlock's button-down, pausing for him to pull his undershirt over his head.  They stumbled out of their shoes and socks, and then Sherlock found himself pressed against his closed door.  John's tongue filled his mouth, dragging along the back of his teeth and tangling with Sherlock's own.  

 

He turned, trading places with John and pulling him toward the bed again.  Sherlock's calves hit the edge of the frame and he let himself collapse, pulling John down on top of him.  He paused at the sound of a metallic jangle -- John’s dog tags.  He wound his fingers around them and gave John a questioning look.

 

“Tomorrow, Sherlock,” John whispered against the other’s lips.  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”  And for the moment, Sherlock decided to let it slide by and enjoy the night.  

 

They broke apart to find a more comfortable position on the bed, and suddenly, all haste was forgotten.  They both silently agreed to make the night last as long as possible, to savour every instant of the other’s touch.

 

When they were both finally stripped to their bare flesh, Sherlock pulled John on top of him, wanting to feel his weight against him, make sure he was alive, breathing, with a beating heart.  John pressed down on him, their erections trapped between them, and pressed his lips to every inch of Sherlock’s skin he encountered.  When he finally relaxed on top of him, both men groaned at the friction against their cocks.  

 

Sherlock reminded himself to make this moment about John, to let John take what he needed.  “What do you want, John?” he panted against the other’s lips.  “What do you need?”

 

John groaned as Sherlock rolled his nipples between his fingers and smiled.  “I want this to last forever.  I want you,  _ here _ , forever.”

 

Sherlock smiled back.  “And you shall have it.  But I did mean  _ specifically _ , tonight.”

  
  


John reached between them and dragged his fingers along Sherlock’s perineum before finding his hole and pressing a fingertip inside the tight ring of muscle.  Sherlock gasped and John leaned down to take his earlobe between his teeth.  “I want to take you.  I want you to be mine.” he breathed into his ear, halfway between a whisper and a growl. 

 

Sherlock shivered at the words and John’s breath on his ear.  He reached over to his nightstand and fumbled around in the drawer and pressed a bottle of lube into John’s hands.  “Then take me.  Make me yours, John.”

 

John smiled and met Sherlock’s lips in a long, deep kiss.  He poured a generous amount of lube onto his fingers and pressed his forefinger into the tight ring of muscle again.  He waited and twisted his finger, loosening the muscle and making room for another finger.  He carefully avoided the bundle of nerves until he could easily fit three fingers inside of Sherlock.  He twisted his fingers and Sherlock arched off the bed with a gasp and a heady moan that went straight to John’s cock.

 

“ _ John _ ,” Sherlock moaned, his voice thick and low with lust.  “John  _ please _ ,” he begged.

 

John smiled and leaned down to press their mouths together.  He slid his fingers from Sherlock’s entrance and wrapped them around his cock.  He let himself rut against Sherlock’s erection and the two groaned at the much needed friction.  “You ready?” he whispered into Sherlock’s curls.  

 

“God yes.” 

 

John grinned and went for the lube, but Sherlock stopped him.  John frowned.  “You okay?”

 

He nodded and uncapped the bottle, pouring lube into his cupped hand.  “Let me,” he said with a mischievous smirk.  John felt himself flush and nodded.

 

Sherlock reached between them and wrapped his lube-covered fingers around John’s length, revelling in the other man’s groan.  He stroked and pulled and rolled John’s testes in his hand.  John’s hips jerked and his cock twitched.  He felt his orgasm building low in his abdomen and pulled away.  “You keep that up and we’ll have to wait for round two,” he panted, “and that might be a while.”

 

The detective sighed and relented, and John pressed the tip of his erection against Sherlock’s hole.  Sherlock nodded, and John pressed in to the hilt with a groan.  He went back to Sherlock’s lips and laughed into the kiss as Sherlock pressed back against him, needy.  Slowly, John began to thrust in and out, pulling almost all the way out before slamming in again.  He reached down and wrapped Sherlock’s legs around his shoulders and adjusted his position.  The next thrust hit directly against Sherlock’s prostate and the detective cried out, barely holding his orgasm back.  John’s thrusts became unsteady and his breathing came in short panting gasps.  He reached down and took Sherlock’s length in hand and stroked him with shaking fingers.

 

“John I’m -- I’m--”  Sherlock panted into John’s neck.

 

“Me too.  Come with me Sherlock.   _ God _ , Sherlock--”

 

John’s orgasm washed over him and a liquid heat filled Sherlock’s body and then his own come was covering his stomach and John’s hands.  John slid from his body, drawing a whimper at the loss of connection, and collapsed on the bed next to him.  Sherlock turned and wrapped his arms around his doctor.  “I’ll always be yours, John.” he whispered, halfway to sleep already.

 

John smiled and pressed a kiss to his detective’s forehead.  “And I’ll be yours.” he sighed, and they both slipped into a blissful sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's so short, I've been busy. The next one will hopefully be longer, and better.

_ Sherlock _ !  As John watched, the man leapt from the roof and fell to the ground with a sickening crunch.  John went to his side, only to be pulled away by Sherlock’s homeless network.  But it was  _ him _ , he was  _ dying _ ,  _ dead _ , but he  _ couldn’t  _ be.  Sherlock Holmes didn’t just  _ die _ .  

 

The scene shifted, and they were at the pool, Moriarty laughing and John’s chest covered explosives.  Sherlock had his gun pointed at Moriarty, and a red laser glowing on his forehead and this time they didn’t get away.  A shot echoed around them and Sherlock fell with a splash and a spray of dark blood and brain matter.  And Moriarty’s laugh bounced sharply off the walls.

 

The cabbie -- John’s shot had missed, and Sherlock swallowed the pill.  And then he was being rushed to hospital, foaming at the mouth and limbs jerking and seizing.

 

For every time John saved him, he died, and John woke with sweat dripping down his face and a desperate gasp and almost-scream.  He sat up in the dark and covered his face with his hands and sobbed as quietly as he could, his body curling in on itself.  

 

Sherlock sensed the movement and sat up next to him.  “John?” he whispered, concern making his voice grow soft.  “A nightmare?”

 

John dried his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.  He cleared his throat, “I’m fine.  Sorry I woke you.”

 

“John,”  Sherlock sighed.  “What was it about?”  John didn’t answer, only curled in on himself further and leaned away from Sherlock’s touch.  “John, you’re not a burden.  If I can help in any way, I will.  I want to.”

 

The doctor swallowed hard and nodded reluctantly.  He released a shuddering sigh, and allowed Sherlock to pull him into his arms and nestled comfortably in his embrace.  “You died.”  he stated plainly, turning his head into Sherlock’s chest.  “You died, and I couldn’t save you no matter what I did.  I was always just a little too late.  You  _ died _ , for every time I saved you, for every case we ever did, you  _ died _ .”

 

For this, Sherlock had no words.  He’d never imagined that something could hurt so deeply, never thought that his death would do so much damage to John.  “John,” he whispered, tears brimming in his eyes.  “John I’m so sorry.” he said, knowing his words would never undo the damage.

 

John shrugged and gave a watery smile.  He nuzzled into Sherlock’s chest, listening to the heartbeat there, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.  “It’s okay.” he sighed.

 

“No.  It isn’t.”

 

“No.  But it is what it is.”  

 

They remained where they were for the rest of the night, and eventually Sherlock felt John drift back to sleep.  When the sun prodded them through the window, Sherlock remained where he was, wrapped tightly around his John, hoping that if he held tight enough, he could prevent the broken pieces from falling away and scattering across the floor.  John woke not long after, and they untangled themselves and he asked about the case from the night before.

 

“Apparent suicide in an apartment downtown.  Lestrade wanted me to make sure it was only that.”  Sherlock replied.

 

John frowned.  “Who was the victim?” he asked, heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

 

Sherlock followed, hesitating before answering.  “Moriarty.”

 

John froze.  “What?”

 

“The victim was identified as James Moriarty.”  He paused and decided to explain what had happened -- or apparently  _ not _ happened -- on the rooftop.  “He died on that roof.  Or I had thought so at the time.  Whoever he hired to take his place was a very skilled actor.  He shot himself in the mouth; that was why I had to jump.” he added quietly, not quite meeting John’s eyes.

 

“But . . . then why did he commit suicide just last night?  Why would he do that if he had gotten away clean?”

 

“That is what Lestrade needs me to determine.”  


	19. Chapter 19

They arrived at the apartment not long after, and found Mycroft at the door, discussing something with Lestrade, a grim expression on his face.  They both turned to greet Sherlock and John as they walked up.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock nodded, acknowledging his brother’s existence.

 

John rolled his eyes and met Lestrade’s concerned look with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  “I’m fine, Greg.  What do you have so far?” he asked.

 

Lestrade cleared his throat.  “Not much yet.  It  _ is _ Moriarty -- we have DNA confirmation,” he gestured to Mycroft, “and there are no signs of a struggle.  It looks like suicide.”

 

Sherlock moved past them and into the apartment.  It was neat -- pristine, really.  Not a speck of dust to be seen.  It was stark and impersonal and, if not for the blood-stained carpet in the master bedroom, it would have been ready for a new tenant.

 

John followed Sherlock to the bedroom, where Moriarty’s corpse laid sprawled across the bed, gun in hand.  He was halted by the sight of the gaping hole in Moriarty’s head, and tried not to look panicked as he rushed outside for air.  He sat down hard on the curb and held his head in his hands, trying to stop its pounding.  He closed his eyes, hoping to avoid his thoughts and shut out the world, and failing at both.  

 

“Christ,” he breathed unsteadily.  “That was almost me.”

 

He was aware of a presence next to him and ignored it at first, hoping whoever it was would let him alone.  When they didn’t, he opened his eyes and looked up to meet Mycroft’s face which was -- for once -- not actually all that smug.

 

“What d’you want, Mycroft?”  John asked; it came out a bit more snappish than he’d intended, but the elder Holmes paid no mind.

 

“John, I know Sherlock tends to paint me as cold and uncaring, but I want you to know that I do understand.”  Mycroft sat elegantly beside John, much to the doctor’s surprise.  “I know what it’s like to give up.  I know what that emptiness feels like.”

 

John furrowed his brows.  “You?  Really?”  Mycroft nodded.  “Does Sherlock know?”

 

“No.  And I’d rather it stay that way.”  He gave John a meaningful look, and the doctor nodded his understanding.  “But I want you to know that it’s perfectly alright -- natural, even -- to rely on someone else from time to time.”  He sighed.  “It’s taken me years to understand that, and longer to accept it.”

 

Lestrade came up behind them, and Mycroft stood.  The DI wrapped an arm loosely around Mycroft’s back and nodded to John.  “Everything alright?”

 

“Yeah,” John said, glancing between the two of them.  “I think so.”

 

“Good,” he sighed.  “I’ve got to get back to the Yard and get a start on the paperwork for all this.  Sherlock’s on his way out.  You’ll be okay, yeah?”

 

John nodded, and Lestrade left with Mycroft at his side.  John remained where he was, thinking about what the oldest Holmes had told him.

 

“You’re thinking.” said a deep baritone which could only belong to Sherlock.  He sat next to John, an inch between them, as though he didn’t quite know the social etiquette for two people in a new relationship.

 

John allowed himself a small smile and moved closer to the detective, leaning his head against his shoulder.  “Yes, I am.”  Sherlock leaned his head against the top of John’s.  “I do that from time to time.”

 

Sherlock hummed a low note.  “But what are you thinking?”

 

“Can’t you tell?”  John pulled away to look up at him.

 

The detective stared down at him and shook his head.  “No.  Not always.  And not now.”

 

He replaced his head on his detective’s shoulder.  “Something your brother told me.”  Sherlock remained silent.  “That it’s okay to rely on someone.”

 

John felt Sherlock’s arm curl around his waist and he relaxed into the touch.  “It pains me to say this, but Mycroft is quite possibly right this time.”

 

“Yeah,”  John sighed, and got to his feet, Sherlock following suit.

 

“Home?”  the detective asked, stepping into the street to hail a cab.

 

John nodded.  “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The very last chapter. Thank you guys so much for reading! I might be posting my alternate version of this fic, which is honestly a lot sadder, so let me know if you guys are interested in reading that and I'll see if I can get it put up.
> 
> Anyway, thanks a million for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!


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